


countdown to yule

by subtlenuage



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beauxbatons Student Tom Riddle, Fluff, Getting Together, Hogwarts Fourth Year, Humor, M/M, Not Beta Read, Rating May Change, The Golden Trio Era (Harry Potter), Vague unnamed Dark Lord (who isn't Tom), goblet of fire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25123243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtlenuage/pseuds/subtlenuage
Summary: Boy-Who-Lived and Gryffindor Golden Boy Harry James Potter just wants some peace, quiet, and to maybe not die in the Triwizard Tournament.Beauxbatons Champion Tom Marvolo Riddle just wants Harry.This can only end so well.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 45
Kudos: 348
Collections: Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> saw a fic of 4th year harry x durmstrang student tom riddle and i busted a PHAT uwu for that... but tbh thinking on it i could honestly see tom more as a beauxbatons student. like a nicholas-flamel-esque prodigy! 
> 
> bc remember kids, no matter how much the movie tries to make u forget it, there were male beauxbatons students and female durmstrang students
> 
> but anyway here's my little rendition on the whole idea :)

Harry Potter, as a practice, likes to avoid the spotlight.

Now, one would look at him and think he’s absolutely bonkers for saying that because, quite frankly, Harry Potter and spotlight are practically synonymous at this point.

Whether it’s vanquishing the Dark Lord when he was just a baby and then disappearing from the world for a decade, or becoming the youngest Seeker in all of Hogwarts history, everything about him just screams newsworthiness. Certainly, Rita Skeeter’s had plenty of fun turning even the barest mundanities of his life into hard-hitting tabloid headlines that has everyone’s heads turning.

It’s true, he’s quite the star to most, but here’s the thing—he never _wanted_ any of that.

None of that had ever been out of his own volition. He just wants to enjoy a normal, magical life, filled with friends and fun and family, plus maybe a few hijinks along the way. He doesn’t particularly care to feed into the never-ending gossip rotary about his life, which seems to fill up against his will anyway.

The prime and golden example of this, of course, would have to be his name being pitched into the Goblet of Fire.

The Triwizard Tournament: something grand, something grand, and—most importantly—something that would be happening _without_ him involved. For once, some big important event wouldn’t stem back to him or rope him in for another year of chaos.

Or so he thought, but Fate certainly loves taking turns with him. And now here he is, unwittingly enlisted into life-threatening games he’d never wanted to take part in in the first place.

‘Tis the life of the Golden Boy, he supposes.

Perhaps, after that, he should’ve just thrown all hopes of laying low out the window altogether. He’s certainly too headstrong and stubborn to purposefully do terribly or—even worse—mediocrely in the Triwizard Tournament. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and submit to his fate of never knowing a moment’s peace again for the rest of his life.

At least then, he wouldn’t be so shocked every time the universe decides to throw a damn curveball at him.

“Potter,” Tom Riddle greets, as though it’s any normal Tuesday and this is any normal conversation.

Which, Harry internally emphasizes, it certainly is not.

He only just holds back the urge to blink rapidly, as though if he tries hard enough, this whole thing will turn out to be just an illusion. A few hundred blinks later, and he’ll scrub the image of Tom Riddle off of the back of his eyelids for good. He doesn’t, of course, because he’s not quite sure he needs _another_ reason for people to think he’s crazy right now.

But sweet Morgana, the temptation is strong.

“…Riddle?” he gets out after a good minute of just gawking at that egregiously handsome face.

Honestly, who ever allowed any one person to look that chiseled yet soft, that sharp yet delicate, needs to be locked up in Azkaban for life. All the students from Beauxbatons seem impossibly elegant and attractive, but Riddle’s on a whole other level. He rivals even Fleur Delacour in popularity, and she’s a damn Veela, for Merlin’s sake!

Or, well, part-Veela, but same thing. Either way, it’s entirely unfair how undeniably handsome Riddle is. A face that perfect either comes directly out of wet dreams or out of nightmares. Or both, if you’re unfortunate enough.

Not that Harry knows anything about that.

“How are you?”

Nope. Definitely not.

“What do you want, Riddle?”

Harry cheers internally when he doesn’t stammer over himself like he expects to. Riddle, on the other hand, seems entirely unfazed by his flustered state. If anything, he just looks bored and a tad bit impatient, a combination that makes Harry apologetic and annoyed at the same time. Which is absolutely ridiculous—if Riddle’s irritated, that’s his problem and his alone.

That doesn’t stop the contrition from bubbling in Harry’s chest.

Curse Riddle’s damn pretty face. Curse his quick wit and ingenious solutions to the riddles— _ha_ , Harry snorts to himself—of the Triwizard Tournament that make even Cedric’s creativity pale in comparison. Curse his smooth baritone with just enough subtle charisma to sway even the most stone-hearted and turn the tabloids into his own personal fanclub newsletter.

And that tiny way his lips quirk up into a half-smile each time he overcomes a trial? Yeah, curse that too.

“You really must eat better, you know?”

The words startle Harry out of his inner spite, and he looks up only to see Riddle throwing an unveiled scowl down at his dinner plate. Or, more specifically, the slice of treacle tart he’s got on it, already half-eaten with his fork raised and raring to go eat more.

“By Merlin, you’re an athlete, aren’t you? How can you ever expect to excel when you feed yourself such rubbish?”

“Fuck off,” Harry snaps without thinking.

He could probably give some pointed retort, boasting about the excellence of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and his success as Seeker thus far, but the words don’t come. It’s so much easier to just spit out harsh curses, even if it makes Riddle raise an eyebrow at him like he’s a petulant child.

“What do you want, Riddle?” Harry repeats, firmer this time. “I know you didn’t wander over here just to criticize my dinner plate.”

He keeps the nervousness out of his voice successfully, but he can’t stop his eyes from flickering behind Riddle briefly all the same. Unsurprisingly, all eyes are on them, or rather, on Riddle. He’s become a bit of a celebrity since the tournament’s started, and only part of that is due to his status as a Champion.

Harry has no doubt that even if Riddle _wasn’t_ participating in the games, he’d still have the whole school gawking at him in no time. From his undeniable charm, to his impeccable use of magic, to his unfortunately stunning looks, even Harry’s not immune to the sway Riddle has. He’s more resistant that most of his peers, sure, but that really isn’t saying much.

“Yes, I suppose so,” Riddle concedes easily, tilting his head and dropping his shoulders slightly. Everything about him reeks this sort of casual confidence that makes Harry both want to punch him and idolize hm at the same time.

Great Godric, now he knows what the snakes feel.

Indeed, amidst everyone gaping at Riddle right now, the Slytherins are especially intrigued. No doubt Riddle had broken away from the Slytherin table, where he’d taken to eating since he’d first come to Hogwarts, just to come have this conversation with Harry. The slimy snakes are probably in shock, wondering why their new favorite plaything is suddenly walking about and fraternizing with a _Gryffindor_ , of all people.

That makes two of them, Harry supposes.

He can probably count on two hands—maybe even one— the number of direct interactions he’s had with Riddle thus far. Some basic introductions, a few vague taunts, a single word or two of luck before the first task: all fairly normal, if not a little cold and distanced.

Though, there had been that instance in the Prefect’s bathroom, when…

_No._

Harry shakes his head slightly, forcing the memory out of his head as he distracts himself with watching various Slytherins ogle Riddle and pretend to be stealthy. Malfoy, in particular, looks absolutely appalled, and that very sight almost makes the inner mortification Harry feels worth it.

Almost.

“I simply wanted to inform you that you’ll be accompanying me for the Yule Ball. That’s all.”

Scratch that. Nothing was worth _this_.

“Excuse me?!”

Harry wants to say more, wants to do anything besides just splutter and stare with his jaw slack open, but he can’t. The retorts won’t form in his head, the arguments won’t spill from his tongue. He’s left to do nothing but gape like a fish and blink rapidly, as though if he tries hard enough, this whole thing will turn out to be some sort of deranged fever dream.

Riddle, as is to be expected in such a situation, doesn’t seem pleased.

“Yule, Potter.” Impatience seeps into his voice, and had Harry had any sense of mind he might have been surprised at how odd it sounded, contrasted to Riddle’s usual composure. “In two weeks’ time, or did you already forget?”

“Shut up,” Harry snaps, more out of habit than anything else, and Riddle scoffs in return. “I didn’t forget, asshole.”

“So sure about that, are you?” Riddle hisses. “With the number of Bludgers you’ve seem to taken to the head, I wouldn’t be so certain myself. Is there really a brain left in there?”

“You’d know all about brainless idiots, wouldn’t you? You practically surround yourself with them.”

“One can’t help those he attracts, Potter, even if they may be invalids.”

Vaguely, Harry wonders if Malfoy and the rest of his smarmy gang heard that. He sure hopes so.

“But I digress,” Riddle says, straightening his already impossibly-straight back to regain the bits of composure he’d lost. “That’s all I came here to say. Do make sure you’re adequately prepared, will you?”

“Prepared for wha—”

Harry cuts himself off as he recalls why they’re having this conversation in the first place, and he can practically feel his cheeks go aflame as the reality sets in.

“Fuck you,” he spits out, just because he can. “I’m not going with you to the Yule Ball.”

“Oh?” Riddle raises one trim eyebrow once again, though Harry swears he sees a flash of something in his eyes before he does. Whether it’s shock, disbelief, confusion, or something else altogether, Harry’s not quite sure. “And why is that?”

“B-because!”

Riddle scoffs and rolls his eyes in one smooth movement that has Harry biting on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m not going with you,” he repeats, though it somehow has even less of an effect on Riddle this time. “I’m not! Merlin, that’s—is that even allowed? We’re both Champions!”

“There is no staunch rule against such things. Simply what tradition dictates, but even that is murky, at best. Really, don’t they teach _anything_ at Hogwarts?”

Righteous indignance flares up in Harry’s chest, but Riddle deflects his wandless Pinching Jinx without even blinking an eye.

“How ‘bout you go sod off and run back to France, if you hate it here so much?” he grumbles, turning halfway back to the dining table in hopes Riddle will accept his obvious dismissal. “I’m not going to the Ball anyway, so you’re gonna have to go pester someone else.”

“Don’t you _have_ to go?” Hermione pitches in from across him, and _Christ_ , when had she gotten here? Ron’s there too, staring at Riddle with a healthy dose of confusion, bafflement, and skepticism. Which is to say, not nearly enough for the given situation, in Harry’s humble opinion. “I’m pretty sure it’s required of Champions.”

“Indeed it is,” Riddle confirms.

Oh great, another reason to hate this whole goddamn tournament.

“Whatever, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter, I’m still not going with you.”

“And again, why exactly is that, Potter?”

“Because, _Riddle,_ ” Harry seethes the name like it’s the most horrid curse, “I don’t—”

— _want_ _to._

That’s it. That’s all Harry has to say. Those meager, easy words are right at the front of his mind, in the back of his throat, on the tip of his tongue. It’d be so easy, to let them stumble from his lips, and then Riddle would finally leave him alone. After all, even Riddle couldn’t have any snappy retort to that, inexplicably persistent as he is.

Sure, it’ll make things a little awkward. Harry might be dense, but he’s no stranger to the repercussions of turning down a pushy, popular, somewhat enigmatic figure. He still has to deal with Slytherins’ abhorrence of him for turning down Malfoy’s friendship offer in first year, and he’s sure it’ll hardly be any different with Riddle.

There might be some more nosy whispering floating about in the hallways of Hogwarts. Rumors might start to pop up left and right like they always do when Harry does anything besides eat, sleep, and breath. Hell, Riddle himself might get offended by his quick dismissal and try to take it out on him during the next two challenges. 

But hey—what’s another thing trying to kill him, at this point?

It’d be so easy, Harry thinks, and he’d be able to deal with the consequences. All he’d have to do is say those two little words, and this whole strange, surreal encounter would be over.

But then, his eyes meets Riddle’s, and the words dry up in his mouth instantly.

“I, I don’t…” he tries again, and Riddle raises an eyebrow at his babbling.

“Yes?”

Riddle’s whole facial expression’s morphed in such minute ways that Harry’s surprised and almost proud of himself for noticing. He takes in the way Riddle’s jaw is ever-so-slightly clenched. His lips are pursed in a thin, pink link. A line of tension runs from his forehead down the bridge of his nose. And then, there are his eyes.

 _Merlin_ , his eyes.

Their normally cool, almost glazed-over appearance has melted away, leaving room for something far rawer than anything Harry’s ever seen from him before. It only takes Harry another second to recognize that same flash of unidentifiable emotion from earlier, and it enraptures him before he can stop himself. Is that surprise he sees? Annoyance? Fear?

And why does he want to know so bad?

“I don’t…”

Only one way to find out, he supposes.

“…know how to dance.”

Riddle blinks, as though he genuinely hadn’t expected that response. The motion causes that cloud of emotion in his gaze to fade, and his expression quickly settles into unbothered stoicism once again. This time, however, Harry feels a strong, sudden urge to break that poise into pieces, and the very thought has his heart racing.

What the bloody hell is wrong with him?

“Is that all?” Riddle says, and there’s something dangerously close to relief in his voice that sends Harry on high alert. “That can be remedied easily, I assure you.”

“You’re confident,” Harry quips.

“Or perhaps you’re not confident _enough_.”

There’s something heated in Riddle’s velvety drawl that rises a blush on Harry’s cheeks, though he’ll deny it for as long as he lives. 

“But no matter, we’ll handle it by this weekend, don’t you worry. That’ll give you plenty of time to practice, at the very least…And for Morgana’s sake, do try to eat a vegetable here and there, will you?”

“Wha—”

And just like that, Riddle’s gone.

Apparition is impossible on school grounds, Harry reminds himself, but it sure as hell feels like it isn’t.

“…What just happened?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else.

“I dunno, mate,” Ron says past a mouthful of chicken.

He looks far too calm for the situation at hand, and so does Hermione, for that matter. Any of the previous surprise or shock Harry had seen from them before seems to have faded away, leaving nothing but a sort of casual resignation as they go back to whatever they’d been doing before.

But who knows? That could just be Harry’s hysteria talking. That would certainly explain everything else that’s happened today.

“Well, from how I see it,” Ginny chirps up from his side. “Looks like you’ve just snagged yourself a date.”

She pauses, tilting her head slightly to think.

“Do you think he’s a Veela like Delacour, too?”

Yep, definitely the hysteria.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this'll probably be a short lil thing, 2-3 chapters at most. i'm just drowning in fluff ideas rn tbh lolol


	2. Chapter 2

For all his internal panic, nothing really changes around Harry for the next week.

It gets to the point where he’s not quite sure whether or not that day in the Great Hall really happened, or if it was just a strange dream, the feverish byproduct of stress from the tournament. Between escaping dragons, breaking and subsequently re-mending most of his friendships, and just generally having to deal with more bullshit than should be legally allowed, he’s been practically running on fumes for the past month now.

Surely, Riddle asking him out wouldn’t be the weirdest dream he’s had thus far in the school year. Might not even make the top 10.

By the time Friday rolls around, Harry’s more than accepted his theory as fact, content to move on with his life as though nothing had ever happened. That’s what everyone else seems to be doing anyway. Not a single person, neither Ron nor Hermione nor Riddle himself, has brought the incident up even once in the past week.

Sure, people are whispering around him, but they always do that, and Harry’s more than learned how to tune them out. And sure, the Slytherins might be a little more evasive than usual—even Draco Malfoy doesn’t seem too keen on pestering him now—but Harry’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. And _sure_ , the whole incident had felt way too vivid to seriously be a dream, but…but…

Well, Harry doesn’t let his thoughts linger on it for long.

He has better things to think about, anyway. Snape’s been an absolute prat, as usual, and assigning them loads of extra work before they’re all off for Christmas holiday. The uncertainty of the second task still looms over his head, as the intensity of the first one still rests heavy in his heart. Plus, while it’s gotten better since his performance against that Hungarian Horntail, many of his peers still scorn him for his participation in the tournament and for supposedly _“_ stealing the spotlight” from Cedric.

So really, the weirdness surrounding Riddle is mostly just an afterthought for Harry by the time the weekend rolls around. His mind’s deep in the trenches of stress like no other, and he doesn't have time for weird maybe-dreams. Any time that’s not spent out on the Quidditch fields, hunched over homework, or trying to hang out with his friends like a normal teenager is spent calming his own anxieties and emotionally preparing for what's to come. Sirius helps where he can, sending him encouragement and advice through letters, though it's not nearly enough. Between the constant busyness and all of the building stress, well—he’s certainly not catching a whole lot of beauty sleep these days, that’s for sure.

That’s what brings him here, just outside the castle as he wanders the grounds.

His night had been filled with restlessness and night terrors once again, and after a good many hours of that, he finally admitted defeat and just left his bed. Now, he’s just roaming around aimlessly, being careful not to stray too far from the castle lest he lose track of time and run too late to grab the first, freshest batch of scones from the breakfast table.

it’s a little strange, just walking about like this. At first, he considered grabbing his broom and having a little fly-around, but it’d only taken him a minute to shut the idea down entirely. Even discounting the fact that he’s so sleep-deprived he’d probably fall off his broom in an instant, flying right now would be a terrible idea. The visibility today is so piss-poor he wouldn’t be able to see the reds from the golds on his own scarf. Morning’s only barely broke, the mistiness around him shrouding any clear vision of the sun Harry could hope to see.

It’s a wonder he’s even able to see a few steps ahead of him now, and vaguely, he wonders if he might get lost.

The thought’s dismissed fairly quickly, though. The castle towers are still in view even past the mist, and his feet have brought him to a rolling hill perched not far from the Great Lake. Stood between two ever-present landmarks, he’ll hardly need anything more than muscle memory to get back. Besides, by the time he finally _does_ go in for breakfast, this damn fog will probably let up at least a little bit more…he hopes.

That minor anxiety quelled, Harry lets himself go back to simply appreciating the peace of where he’s at. It’s quiet like this, far too early in the morning for anyone else to really be around, and it’s the greatest blessing Harry could hope for. He knows that today won’t be quiet or calm, by virtue of _none_ of his days being quiet or calm, so he’s more than happy to get whatever tiny fragments of calm he can get.

“Potter!”

Or not.

Harry startles at the sudden call of his name, jerking his head around rapidly to try and follow the source of the voice. It takes him a couple of turns before he’s able to see a figure approaching from afar, a bit of a blur even with his glasses on because of the mist. Squinting a little, Harry takes in the sight of a rich blue coat, strikingly pale skin, tousled dark hair—

_Oh no._

It takes all of Harry’s willpower to not turn and run right then and there.

“R-Riddle?”

Harry winces a little, telling himself the stutter in his voice is from the cold rather than from fluster, as Tom Riddle saunters over to him. He’s closer now, at most five meters away, and it’s close enough that Harry can point out some of the larger, individual curls poised primly atop his head in an inexplicably neat tousle. It's a sort of controlled chaos, and Harry can't help but wonder what it would feel like to run his hands through those perfect curls and muss them up.

_Wait, what?_

Shaking his head slightly, Harry banishes the thought and instead waits silently for Riddle to join him.

“Good morning,” he greets lightly, trying not to look at the slight dusting of pink on Riddle’s cheeks from the cold air biting into his skin. He’s sure his own cheeks look the same or, more likely, even worse.

“What on earth brings you out here so early?” Riddle shoots back in lieu of a real response, deflective as always.

“I could ask the same of you,” Harry snaps, a tad bit snippier than he’d intended. Thankfully, Riddle doesn’t seem affronted at all. He just shrugs and says nothing, and when it becomes clear that he’s not going to be graced with any response, Harry sighs and looks back out to the lake. “Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d just take a walk.”

“Why wouldn't you stay in the castle? Are you hoping to catch frostbite out here?”

Harry shrugs. “The cold helps wake me up.”

There’s no response to that, and a good long minute of silence stretches on instead. It goes on long enough for Harry to wonder if Riddle’s just up and left, though he doesn’t bother looking over to check.

Instead, he keeps his gaze fixed on the lake, or rather, whatever obscure bits of it he can make out past the morning haze. He watches as the grey fog fades into white snow, and notes how the water’s both ashy and shiny at the same time, like a sort of sooty silver. It’s as gloomy a scene as any, but Harry takes solace in the catharsis it brings.

At least he’s not the only one down in the dumps and dreary this morning.

“Come.”

Riddle’s demand snaps Harry out of his reverie suddenly, making him blink and turn his head. Green eyes meet brown, and Harry barely has time to take in Riddle’s unreadable expression before a hand is wrapping around his arm and tugging without so much as asking permission.

“If we’re going to be killing time, we might as well put it to something useful instead of just walking around here.”

Vaguely, Harry wonders when _his_ morning walk turned into a _“we”_ thing.

He almost voices the thought, but it gets caught in the back of his throat before he can. All words do, it seems, because he’s unable to do anything but follow along wordlessly as Riddle begins to drag him, none-too-gently, away from the lake. Protests, questions, _anything_ he could possibly say seems to die on his lips, save for tiny huffs and grunts he lets out as he stumbles along to follow Riddle.

So much for a peaceful morning, he supposes.

“Where are we going?” he finally asks once they’ve made it back into the castle’s walls.

He’d assumed that Riddle just wanted him back inside, where it’s warm. Why he’d care about that, Harry doesn’t want to think about. It doesn’t matter anyway. Judging by how Riddle’s yet to stop walking or even slow his stride a little, it’s clear that he’s not just dragging Harry back inside. He’s dragging him _somewhere_.

Harry’s surprisingly more okay with that idea than he should be.

“Somewhere we won’t be bothered.”

Okay, _that_ does run a little spark of panic down Harry’s spine. He’s not worried, per se, but Riddle’s words are just suspicious and vague enough to have him testing the grip on his arm discretely.

It doesn’t budge.

“Riddle…” he says lowly. Riddle doesn’t seem to notice his hesitance, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

Harry swallows his alarm down, though, and instead lets himself get pulled along. He doubts Riddle’s up to anything nefarious, despite the rumors he’s heard of him. Harry’s fairly sure he’s done nothing thus far to make Riddle detest him in any way, save for just being himself. Not to mention, men like Riddle are _all_ about their reputation—getting into a fight with another Champion would hardly do him any good, now would it?

Though, Harry thinks wryly, it’s not like there are any witnesses around right now. It’s still far too early in the morning for anyone to be around, especially once they make it to the western stairwell. If Riddle really is bringing him along somewhere to curse the living hell out of him, there’d be no one to vouch on Harry’s behalf save for himself.

Not to mention, with the crowd that Riddle hangs around with, he can’t entirely discount motive. Less competition in the tournament, some satisfaction for the Slytherins he crowds around himself… surely, Riddle has plenty of reason to fuck with him, even if they’ve barely interacted before.

Harry tests the grip on his arm once more.

“We’re almost there,” Riddle says, clearly mistaking his anxiety for impatience.

They’re up on the seventh floor now, and if Harry was in his right mind, he might be impressed by how comfortable Riddle is walking around the whole school. He moves like he knows every inch of the whole castle by heart, something that even Harry’s not sure he can claim after being here for four years.

Well, this is certainly doing nothing to ease Harry’s nerves.

“Ah, here we are.”

The words are the only warning Harry gets before Riddle’s abruptly halting in the middle of the corridor. It’s only his fast reflexes that keep Harry from completely faceplanting into Riddle’s back, and even then, he stumbles over his feet for a good few seconds before finding his ground.

“Riddle, wha—”

He’s cut off not by Riddle himself, but by the wall beside them.

The wall which, out of the blue, has begun to fall away, only for a simple wooden door to take its place.

A fucking _door_.

“Close your mouth, if you will,” Riddle says dryly, as though the sight of Harry gawking is nothing but unsightly to him. “Are you really so shocked?”

“Wh—”

Harry chokes on his own voice, still staring wide-eyed as Riddle, unbothered, reaches for the knob with his free hand. He turns it, and just like that, the just-manifested door creaks quietly as it opens. Harry can’t hold back his gasp.

“What _is_ this?”

“Come now, Potter.” Riddle swings the entrance open and walks forward, pulling Harry into the strange room with him as he does. The door slams shut behind them with a resounding thud. “Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Room of Requirement?”

“Huh? Room of—Riddle, what the bloody hell are you on about?”

The words come out a bit harsher than he wants them to, only because he’s fraught with nerves and confusion and an exhaustion that’s slowly starting to creep up on him from a sleepless night. His tone seems to take not only himself aback, but Riddle too, judging by the way he whips his head around.

His eyes are wide, round as saucers as they stare at Harry with a look that’s nothing short of incredulous. His brows are raised, and his jaw’s even a little slack in the corner. Really, it’s the most emotion Harry’s probably ever seen on Riddle, though he can hardly enjoy the sight with how frayed his thoughts are right now.

He doesn’t get a chance to either, because Riddle’s composing himself not even a moment later. Traces of surprise still linger on his face, but that pure shock entirely fades away into something far more composed and, if nothing else, _curious_.

“…You really haven't,” Riddle mutters, as though speaking more to himself than anyone else.

He considered Harry for a moment, his expression indecipherable. His eyes narrow slightly, flickering about as though trying to pinpoint… something. Harry’s not quite sure what. Maybe he’s looking for a sign that Harry’s lying or something like that. Either way, the pressure of such a pointed gaze is hardly comfortable, and Harry tries not to squirm under it.

“The Room of Requirement,” Riddle says slowly after a long minute, his eyes still fixated on Harry, “only appears to those who know of and are in need of it. It can give you whatever you need, within reason of course, so long as you’re specific in what you ask for. It’s known by very few, but those who do can expect to use it with the utmost privacy that this castle’s walls can provide.”

Harry gapes at him for a hard, long moment, before his mouth is moving to form words without his brain’s permission.

“Should I be concerned you know more about Hogwarts than I do?” he blurts out.

“Don’t worry your little head over such trivial things.”

Before Harry could even think to get offended at the words, Riddle's turning away from him and brushing him off with a dismissive hand wave. He turns his attention to shucking off his coat and outer robes instead. They're dusted with bits of precipitation and snow, and when Riddle turns around, there’s suddenly a coat hanger convenient propped up behind him to hang his garments on.

Harry swallows a little at the sight of Riddle in his casual clothes—simple grey slacks, a crisp, pale blue button-up, and a fitted, deep navy vest—and forces himself to look away before he could be caught staring. Instead, he focuses his attention on removing his own coat, while quietly examining the new, mysterious room he’s wandered into.

The furnishing in the room is a bit… minimal, to be quite honest. There’s the coat hanger that just appeared, plus a small table and chairs in the corner of the room, a few enchanted lights across the walls, and rug right in the center of the room. It’s a fairly wide open space, with relatively high ceilings and little in the ways of obstructions on the ground. 

There’s nothing remarkable about the place, so it still begs the question—why are they here?

“I’d suggest removing your scarf and gloves as well,” Riddle pitches in as he watches Harry hang up his outerwear. “Bulky items will make things difficult for us.”

“Right,” Harry says slowly, removing the articles as suggested with little protest but so many questions. “And what exactly are we doing, then?”

When he turns to face Riddle properly this time, he’s met immediately with perhaps one of the most unimpressed, yet amused expressions he’s ever seen on a person in his entire life.

“Why, I’m teaching you how to dance, of course.”

… _what_.

Harry feels like all the color should drain from his face with an affronted horror, but he’s more horrified to see that it _doesn’t_. Instead, he can feel heat building up on his skin as blood rushes to his cheeks and imbues them with a raging flush he knows he can’t blame on the cold.

“You—!” he exclaims, cutting himself off as he fumbles with what to say.

Merlin, what can he say, in response to that? Riddle certainly doesn’t seem to be joking, that’s for sure. No, Harry realizes with both horror and anticipation, he’s dead serious. Harry watches as Riddle rolls up his shirt sleeves with practiced precision, showing off leanly muscled forearms that Harry makes himself look away from.

Riddle doesn’t seem to notice, more perplexed by Harry’s flustered state as he bumbles and splutters about.

“Y-you, you were serious about that?”

“Of course,” Riddle says curtly, stepping forward resolutely while Harry resists the urge to step backwards.

Questions swarm Harry’s mind at dizzyingly fast speeds, as he tries in vain to wrap his mind around what’s happening. He wants to take a step back and assess what the hell is going on. He wants to push back with a snappy retort about how _they’re not going to the Yule Ball together, so just give it a rest already, Riddle._ He wants to interrogate Riddle, dig into his brain to find out why on earth he’s so insistent on going together in the first place.

Yet nothing comes.

Harry can’t get a single word out, and he’s left to do nothing but splutter out half-syllables while Riddle stops right in front of him. He’s so close that Harry has to crane his head upwards just to meet his eyes, and the proximity makes Harry’s vision swim. He only barely notices when Riddle reaches down and clasps his hands. He’s gentle this time, intertwining their fingers together and raising them to eye level.

And then he frowns.

“Cold.”

“Huh?”

“Your hands,” Riddle says plainly, furrowing his eyebrows and looking up at Harry in confusion. “They’re still cold. You didn’t use a warming charm?”

Harry blinks rapidly, trying to process what was just said, but even then he’s not quite sure what to say. A small part of him wants to act snarky, say that he never got a chance to when Riddle had just dragged him in unceremoniously. He squashes that idea down, though, instead just shrugging lightly.

“I didn’t think about it,” he says honestly.

While the chill’s not the most pleasant thing, it’s also not unbearable. Aunt Petunia’s put him to work in colder temperatures than this before, and he hadn’t been lying when he told Riddle that the cold wakes him up. He’d warm up eventually anyway, so it was hardly something to concern himself over right now.

That answer isn’t good enough for Riddle though, whose frown only deepens with his response. For a second, Harry’s worried that he’s made Riddle angry, and he opens his mouth to apologize more out of habit than anything else. Before he can, though, Riddle is snapping his head over to the side, and Harry instantly feels compelled to do the same.

Following Riddle’s gaze, Harry looks to the far side of the room, and he can’t control his gasp at what he sees.

A fireplace.

He _knows_ he hadn’t seen that before, but what had Riddle said before?

_It can give you whatever you need, within reason of course, so long as you’re specific in what you ask for._

Harry can’t stop his lips from quirking up into a smile. Magic really never ceases to amaze him.

As though in response to his grin, the fireplace roars to life, and it only takes a few lethargic seconds for its delicate heat to start seeping out into the room. It doesn’t work instantly, of course, but Harry can already feel tiny bits of its warmth permeating the air. He turns back to Riddle, a cloying remark on his tongue, but his breath hitches instantly at what he sees.

Riddle’s smiling.

It’s a small thing, just the barest upturn of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless. Moreover, it’s one that Harry’s seen before, albeit rarely whenever Riddle accomplishes something difficult. Thinking on it, Harry can only pinpoint two times he’s seen the smile before: once, when he had first been selected as the Beauxbatons Champion, and the other time when he had defeated his dragon in the first trial.

And yet here he is now, smiling that little smile for a third time, and Harry’s heart skips a beat.

“Shall we begin?”


End file.
